


The Worst Winter

by We_Band_of_Buggered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Coming Out, Disturbing dreams, Drugs, Dysfunctional Family, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Nightmares, Overdosing, Past Child Abuse, Road Trip, Sexual Tension, domestic abuse, loss of family member, sexuality denial, sorry about that, soul searching, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:11:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_Band_of_Buggered/pseuds/We_Band_of_Buggered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Dean meets Castiel, he is unnerved by him. He vows to avoid him if ever he sees him again, but things don't go to plan. The second time they meet, Castiel is injured; bruised and bloody and all alone. During one of the most difficult times of Dean's life, one night of compassion for a virtual stranger turns into more than either of them could ever have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Intermittent updates for now. They'll be more frequent after I sit my exams in early to mid December.

It was getting to that time of year. Already. The winter months seemed to have crept upon the city so effortlessly; a seamless transition from a scorching sun to a constant, relentless chill in the air and darkness by late afternoon. Dean was the only staff member left in the coffee house. Winter kept people from the streets, or pushed Christmas shoppers back to the warmth of their homes rather than local cafés when the day's necessities were done. Dean had long since been capable of single handedly running the shop, and so his colleagues had been sent home. 

An hour shy of closing time, Dean was slurping soup, eyes scanning the newspaper spread open by the coffee machine when what was to be the day's final customer walked in. Heavy footsteps clipped against the wooden floor, coincidentally in time with the beat of rock music playing quietly from overhead speakers. If it wasn't for the clearing of a throat, Dean wouldn't have been pulled from his trance. He jumped at the noise, but moments later was pushing his soup bowl to the side and offering the customer a polite smile as he took his position behind the till. 

“Welcome to Central Coffee House,” Dean greeted, “What can I get for you, man?”

The man before him, who couldn't have been much younger than Dean, didn't look at him as he spoke, and still wasn't looking at him now. Instead, his head was tilted to one side like a curious puppy, blue eyes fixed on the large menu boards pinned to the wall behind Dean. Dean, realising he would be waiting, shifted his weight to one leg now. His palms were flat upon the surface of the counter, and the young man's silence gave Dean time to properly observe this new customer. He watched as the guy pulled a hand from the deep pocket of a beige trench coat and brought it absently to scratch the scalp beneath his thick, rich brown hair. Pale lips moved ever so slightly as the brunet's eyes made their way through the menu boards, as if whispering the words to himself made them easier to process. 

Dean waited.

“Spoiled for choice, huh?” he chuckled amiably, glancing at the menu boards briefly. Blue eyes, to his surprise, were fixed firmly upon him by the time he turned back. He was startled by that. He hadn't been expecting it, and above the high cheekbones of a thin face, those eyes seemed almost too big for the face they were rooted in. Dean couldn't recall the last time he'd seen eyes so ocean blue, and before he could stop himself, the word “whoa,” slipped quickly from his lips. Blue eyes narrowed in confusion and Dean's green counterparts widened. Embarrassed heat sprung to his cheeks. To divert attention from it, he clapped his hands together and forced a short chuckle before asking again, “What can I get for you?” 

“Black coffee please,” gravel replied evenly, those eyes still locked on Dean's. The barista was suddenly tense, and he swallowed hard before he spoke. The brunet seemed so truly focused on Dean where most customers would, by now, be counting change or somehow caught mostly in their own world. Interacting with this man was so intense that it was close to intimidating. Dean quirked his eyebrows. 

“All that thinking and you're going with a black coffee?” Dean tried the playful rapport he was so known for among the regulars, but it fell short. His voice was flat and colourless, as if he'd suddenly lost all interest in his own words. 

“I wanted to know all of the options,” Blue Eyes blinked, frowning as though this were obvious, and Dean forced a smile.

“Sure,” he gave a nod, “Well, uh...take a seat and I'll get that straight to you.”

Blue Eyes didn't smile, but his features softened, his frown falling back to neutrality. It was only when the brunet turned to find a table that Dean was able to look away. It was like tumbling out of a trance, or being trapped by relentless waves and finally released upon the shore, dazed. He pulled a mug from the shelf beneath the coffee machine and used a series of three buttons to tell the machine what to do. He watched carefully as the machine completed its task, willing himself to keep his gaze on the rising coffee level, and not to shift it to the wide eyed brunet who was most likely staring right now from his table. 

There was something about him. Dean couldn't put his finger on it, but whatever it was sent shivers down Dean's spine and made the room colder.

“Black coffee,” Dean said as he brought it to the booth Blue Eyes had chosen. He set it down and swallowed hard again at the turn of that head and the snap of those blue eyes onto his. Dean cold swear he'd almost heard it happen; the the unmistakable snap of a camera, or the click of a a key turning in its lock.

“Thank you,” Blue Eyes replied, holding a closed fist out to Dean, who hesitated. “Exact change. For the coffee.”

“Oh,” Dean held his palm out and watched the change slip from Blue Eyes' hand to his own slightly larger one. He closed his fist around the change, forced another smile and croaked, “Enjoy.”

The remainder of the hour passed without incident. Blue Eyes sipped quietly at his coffee and Dean replayed the playlist from his iPod almost as soon as it finished. Aside from that, he pottered through the few remaining cleaning duties and tried to immerse himself in the newspaper once again. He couldn't. This, he realised, was one of the few occasions on which Dean wished that Central Coffee House had a staff room, or at the very least, a kitchen that wasn't in plain sight of every customer regardless of their choice of table. On the handful of times when he let himself glance at Blue Eyes, the brunet wasn't returning the gesture. His hands were wrapped around his coffee mug, and his eyes were fixed on straight ahead through the window at the front of the shop. It was flanked by two bookshelves and looked out onto the street. He seemed entranced. By the sight? By his thoughts? Dean had no idea. He folded the newspaper away, tucked it into the recycling box and turned off all of the machinery. 

“Need to close up now,” Dean told Blue Eyes from the coat stand in the kitchen's corner. Blue Eyes turned his attention to Dean, locking eyes again, giving a nod and looking away as he slid from the booth. He placed his now empty coffee mug upon the counter that separated him from Dean, who had already decided he wasn't going to wash it until tomorrow. 

“Thank you,” the brunet said again, eyes bringing heat from beneath the surface of Dean's skin,

“Bye,” Dean replied, too quickly. He couldn't tell if it was simply his imagination, but at his curt response he was almost certain that Blue Eyes' face had fallen slightly. A crackle of guilt ran through the taller man, but he neither apologised nor found it in himself to say anything else, and the brunet had turned on his heel by now, heavy footsteps against total silence now, heading towards the door. He closed it gently behind him, and Dean held his breath until the brunet was fully out of sight. 

The next handful of minutes were spent wiping tables, pulling on his leather jacket and the hat he'd taken to wearing against the cold, thin air, and the last thing he did before stepping outside and locking the door behind him was turn the lights out. 

All the while, and for the entirety of the short drive home, his mind raced. His every thought seemed to lead back to Blue Eyes, as if some hidden entity within him was forcing him from every other conceivable path of thought and back to that disheveled man whose eyes were too big and who unnerved Dean more than anyone had in a remarkably long time. It was the staring, Dean reasoned. Nobody liked strangers to stare so relentlessly at them. Lots of people would be as chilled and as tense as Dean at the sight of a taciturn stranger who could make a simple coffee order almost overwhelmingly intense. 

“I need a beer,” Dean told himself a mile short of his flat. His mind moved to the bottles in the fridge and he smiled at the thought. He felt himself relax already, and as he pulled into the parking lot of his building, he told himself how to deal with Blue Eyes. If he came back to the coffee house, Dean would treat him like any other customer. He'd be prepared for the staring and he wouldn't let it phase him. And aside from the essential barista to customer interaction, he'd pay the guy- and his eyes- no attention. 

There were far more important things in Dean's life than creepy customers at work. Especially now.


	2. Chapter 2

“What are you drawing?” Charlie glanced over Dean's shoulder and into the sketchbook in his lap. She was leaning her weight upon the back of the couch Dean sat on, and the blond snapped the book shut before she had a chance to see anything more than fleeting grey pencil marks. 

“Nothing,” he insisted, palm flat upon the book's cover now, gripping tight as though she might try to pry it from his hands. Instead, she rolled her eyes, pulled herself over the back of the couch and landed, smiling and cross legged by Dean's side. He pretended not to notice the expectant smile she had settled upon him. 

“I bet it's great,” she shrugged, gesturing casually to the moleskin, “but I'll never have any way of knowing, thanks to you, mister secretive.”

“Tell you what,” Dean looked at her, “I'll leave my sketchbooks to you in my will. If I die before you, they're yours.”

“Mister Hour Long Shower wouldn't want them?”

“You know those aren't our names, right?” Dean nudged the redhead's shoulder gently with his own, “We're actually both Mister Winchester, but you can call me Dean. The worse looking one's Sam.”

Charlie smiled fondly at her house mate now, returning the nudge with one of her own. They fell into a comfortable silence, Charlie's eyes still on the book in Dean's lap, Dean's eyes moving towards the living room door now. He sighed and Charlie leaned against his shoulder, covered her mouth as she yawned.

“Sammy!” Dean called, voice loud enough that he felt Charlie's small jump, “Hurry it up in there!” A few moments of near silence passed, the only sounds the heavy ticking of the living room's clock and the flowing static of the shower running from the bathroom across the hall. Dean had grown so used to that noise in the last hour that he could imagine it lasting forever. A few moments after his shouts, however, the static came to an abrupt halt. It was replaced by a silence so prominent that it almost rang in Dean's ears. 

At the same time, he and Charlie called to him, “Finally!”

“Don't call me Sammy!” came a muffled voice from the bathroom.

“Teenagers,” Dean rolled his eyes, pulling himself up from the couch now with a crack from his knee that made him feel too old. He tucked the pencil into the pocket of his jeans, the sketchbook under one arm now, and he had almost reached the living room door by the time Charlie stopped him.

“Dean?” she said quietly, a tentative tone brimming surprisingly close to the surface of such a short, small word. Somehow, Dean was sure he already knew what she was going to ask.

“Yeah?” he asked anyway, his back to his house mate. Her voice came just as quietly the second time as it had the first. 

“How is he coping?”

As soon as the words left Charlie's lips, Dean's eyes slipped closed. Something at the pit of his stomach sunk deeper and he found himself breathing harder, more laboured by the task suddenly. It was as though Charlie's words were an accidental punch to the stomach. He didn't want to talk about this. He felt, in this moment, that he would have given anything to be able to walk away wordlessly and never have the topic surface again. He wished it would simply slip from Charlie's memory and that he wouldn't have to have this conversation. But then she said his name again, softly, kindly, and he knew he had to answer her.

“Bobby says he's struggling,” Dean admitted with a sigh after another pause, careful to keep his voice down lest Sam overheard, “It's hard for him.”

“Of course it is,” Charlie replied, and though Dean wasn't looking at her, he could picture her pale, delicate features softening, gentle eyes and a troubled frown aimed at the back of his head. “It's hard for both of you.”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled, frown deepening. 

Before either of them could say anything more, the heavy bathroom door swung open with its accustomed creak. Sam Winchester, the younger of the brothers, stood in the doorway and, at seventeen years old, he was fast approaching Dean's above average height. He'd be taller than him one day. Dean was sure of that. For years now Sam had been verging on lanky, slender build with long, clumsy limbs, and he had a few more years of growing to do before he would fully grow into himself, Dean suspected. Sam's dark hair was wet, pulled back from his face and dripping small beads of water onto the shoulders of the blue and white flannel shirt he was still in the process of buttoning up.

“I'm ready,” Sam told his brother, who responded with a nod and a painfully forced smile.

“Good. Let's go.”

 

**

The brothers spent what was, for Dean, an uncomfortable about of time immersed in awkward silences. They trawled a shopping centre they didn't buy anything from, ate from a café whose food barely appealed to Sam, and all the while Dean had been lamely trying to engage his little brother in conversation. About anything. Sam's uncharacteristic solemness sent white hot pangs through the elder Winchester. He asked about school, about Bobby, about any girls Sam might have an interest in, and all the while Sam tried to answer as accurately and succinctly as he could. His stiff posture, coupled with the frown he wore as he spoke, would almost have led Dean to believe that talking caused Sam physical pain. He longed for his brother's genuine smile and the enthusiastic chattering Dean recalled from the days in which they had still lived together.

Sometimes it was hard to remember that Sam wasn't a child anymore.

“Sorry for the lousy brothers' day out,” Dean frowned in the early evening. By now they were sat in Central Coffehouse, Sam drinking a coffee and Dean making his way through a root beer. His hands were wrapped around the bottle, not caring about how cold it was against his already chilled skin. For the handful of minutes before he spoke, he had been staring at it. Now, though, his eyes and attention were on the teenager opposite him. 

“It's not your fault,” Sam replied, barely able to hold his brother's gaze for more than a few seconds.

“Yeah it is,” Dean tightened his grip on the bottle, and this time Sam merely sighed, “Listen, Sammy-”

“It's Sam,” his brother corrected stubbornly. Dean shifted a little in his seat. It was his turn to sigh.

“Listen, Sam,” he corrected with a roll of his eyes, “You can visit me any time you like. There's...always a place for you with me.”

“Aren't you the one who always says, 'No chick flick moments'?” Sam challenged, giving his best imitation of Dean's deeper voice.

“Yeah, well...” Dean mumbled, trying to ignore the sting that Sam's reply caused. But then he brought his eyes up to meet his brother's and his expression hardened, “But then Dad died and it turns out there's a lot of things you need to hear from me.”

Sam held Dean's gaze after that, but didn't respond. His lips were slightly parted, his features gentler than usual, stunned by Dean's words. Dean could tell, and he almost felt guilty for dropping a moment like this on his brother in public and so close to when Sam was due to return to Bobby's home. The other part of him, however, was at the mercy of a searing anger that bubbled close to the surface of him. He'd been trying to get through to Sam, trying to hold their relationship together instead of letting it slip and fall apart. Dean was the first of them to drop his gaze. 

“I miss him, Dean,” Sam said quietly, “I miss him and I'm just...trying to figure out what to do with that.”

Dean nodded in response, wordlessly telling his brother that he understood. They slipped back into silence after that, and Dean couldn't tell if it was more comfortable than before or whether it was even worse. Sam was slouched in his seat, eyes trained on what little coffee he had left in his mug. Dean's eyes followed his brother's absently, the window by their table showing a darkened street, the café leaving the pair surrounded by the strangely comforting aromas of coffee and hot food, a quiet din of chatter coming from the other two tables of customers. Today's music was a delicate plethora of soft classical sounds. By the time Sam next spoke, Dean had fallen into a deep trance and the teenager had to wave a hand in front of his brother's eyes to pull him out of it. Dean seemed almost startled, as if he hadn't realised how far away he'd gone in his mind.

“What?” he asked, attention fully on Sam now, “What is it?”

“The time,” Sam gestured to the clock by the door, “My train leaves in fifteen minutes.” Dean's eyes moved to the clock Sam had pointed to, and they lingered on it for a few seconds too long. Even Dean wasn't really sure why. Maybe he was trying, in vain, to prove that Sam had somehow misread the clock, that it was actually an hour earlier than Sam had thought, that the brothers didn't have to part just yet. But Sam was right. Bobby would be waiting for him at the other end of his journey, and this was the train he needed to be on.

“Right,” Dean said quietly, smiling to mask the fact that he missed Sam already although they hadn't even risen from their table yet.

“I have to go now,” the teenager rose from the table, pulling his rucksack from beneath the table and swinging it onto his back, “School tomorrow.”

“I know, Sammy,” Dean pushed his chair back from the table and pulled himself to his feet, “Better get moving. Think I'd let you stay another night and risk never having a chance to use my own bathroom?”

“Very funny,” Sam rolled his eyes, though if Dean wasn't mistaken there really was a smile upon Sam's long, pale face. The boy turned on his heel and, after a quick goodbye wave to his boss, Dean followed.

“Maybe if your hair wasn't so damn long,” Dean gently tugged at a strand of Sam's dark locks, “your showers wouldn't have to last the entire morning.”

“Shut up,” Sam jumped away from Dean, turning quickly to slap his hand away and make his brother chuckle. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

The rest of their walk to the train station passed in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable, the city blanketed beneath a sky that was nearly completely dark. There were no stars tonight, and Sam promised his brother he'd visit again the following weekend, and the only light came from the moon's glow and orange pools of street lights. 

And then Dean was waving at a train window pulling gently out of the station, and Sammy was gone for another week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas meet for a second time.

There were a number of reasons that Dean didn't go straight home that night. His mind felt overloaded, like a case full to the brim and close to bursting. He missed Sam and didn't want to talk about it. It was obvious that both of them had yet to figure out how to deal with their father's death, and he didn't want to talk about that either. He was as fond of Charlie as he'd ever been of a friend, but she would exact sympathy with the best of intentions and Dean just wasn't ready to face that yet tonight. 

There was a park a little over a mile from his building. So he'd heard, anyway. The place was in the opposite direction than his flat and his place of work, so he'd never been there. 

The thin, unforgiving air was beginning to stew into a piercing wind as he walked. It bit fiercely at any bare skin it could find on the blond, who walked with his head down, his body pulled into itself for warmth, and the oversized leather jacket that had once been his father's wrapped tightly around him. He thought of Bobby as well as Sam, and as well as their father. Bobby had been like a second father to Dean and Sam throughout their lives. The pair had spent countless hours in his home and in his company, but it had never been their home. What did Sam do there? How did he and Bobby cope with the new situation? What was it like for the two of them, and was it wrong of Dean to be so far away from it all; to be dealing alone with his struggle rather than helping his family through theirs? 

He clenched his teeth to stop them chattering, and after around twenty minutes of walking, he knew he'd found the right place. He reached a road crossing and raised his head, spotting a fence of metal bars that ran the entire length of the street, tucked behind bushes that were, by now, well on the way to their winter deaths. He crossed the street, wandered along it until he found a gate propped open by a pile of bricks and opening into a large spread of grassy ground. The grass was a few inches longer than it ought to have been, and while winter had already killed and browned patches here and there, the majority of it was still as green as it had been in summer. The park, which was more of a large, spacious field with a children's play area in the back corner, was framed by rows of heavy, looming oak trees whose leaves were scattered at their bases, save the few that stubbornly clung on.

There were only a small number of street lights in the park. Dean made his way towards one, however, deciding that he wanted to sit at the furthest away bench from the park's entrance. It was pressed against the back wall and sat, as if in spotlight, directly beneath a street light, and was prominent against the darkness as it overlooked the entire area. 

He was in deep thought, and in fact, were it not for the sound of a gentle throat clearing from a bench somewhere to his left, he wouldn't have been pulled from his trance. He would have walked right past the figure he was now stopping to study. He would have been making his way to the bench against the wall instead of squinting into to the darkness at the origin of the cough, that was now being followed by gentle sniffs.

“Hello?” Dean called, taking a step closer to the silhouette of a man hunched on a bench in darkness. He sat up just a little at the sound of another voice.

“Hello?” the man mirrored Dean's cautious greeting. As Dean moved closer it grew easier to see the man, whose deep voice had undeniably struck a chord of familiarity within the blond. By the time Dean was only a few feet away, the light of the moon was enough that he could see more than a mere silhouette. He could see dark, tousled waves of short but thick hair, full lips parted and a face turned directly towards Dean. Dean stopped in his tracks at the clearer sight of the man;s face. One eye was blackened with an ugly and prominent bruise, dried blood clinging to the skin between his nostrils and his top lip. There was more on his chin, darkening stubble and then, further down, staining the white of the young man's shirt collar. The blood was stark and striking against it, and Dean's body flooded with adrenaline.

But it was the man's large blue eyes that made him almost instantly recognisable to Dean. 

“Holy crap, dude,” Dean's eyes widened, “What the hell happened to you?”

“I...” Blue Eyes started, and Dean noticed, for the first time, that his cheeks were stained with tears, “I'm not having a very good night.” His voice was so deep, so matter of fact. Dean scoffed at his words. 

“No kidding,” he remarked, taking a step closer to Blue Eyes. It hadn't even dawned on him that he'd vowed to stay away from this guy less than a week ago; to treat him like a customer and nothing else. “The hell happened?”

“I...” Blue Eyes started again, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand as he paused, “I told someone something they didn't like.”

“Shit,” Dean moved even closer to the bench now, taking small and somewhat tentative steps. Something about this situation was churning Dean's stomach, gripping at his heart and twisting it in his chest. He'd seen bloodied noses before. He'd had them, he'd caused them, and the guy's black eye wasn't the worst Dean had come across. Nonetheless, there was something different now than about all the other times. Maybe, Dean told himself, it was because it was cold and dark and this practical stranger was bloodied and had clearly been crying alone in an empty park mere moments before Dean got there. “Do you need to get to the emergency room or something?” 

“I'm okay,” Blue Eyes shook his head, and Dean had to bite his tongue not to accuse him of lying, “I usually heal quickly. But thank you.”

“Usually?” Dean raised his eyebrows, “So this has happened before?”

“That's not what I meant,” Blue Eyes caught Dean's eyes now, that ocean blue gaze brimming with sadness, his lips pulled to a gentle frown. 

“Okay,” Dean said with a small shrug, frown deepening when the dishevelled brunet looked away. “You live around here? I can walk you home if you want.”

“No thank you,” Blue Eyes replied in something resembling a murmur, “I...live with family. I'll face them in the morning.”

“Face them?” Dean asked, and Blue Eyes narrowed his gaze.

“They shouldn't see me like this. They...would want an explanation.”

“Oh,” Dean said, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

“You don't have to stay with me,” the brunet told him, and despite the trench coat the guy was wearing, Dean could see that he was trembling softly from the cold. Dean could easily have walked away, forgotten about someone else's drama and focussed on clearing his own mind as he had come here to do in the first place. But there was something about this situation that made him feel like it would be best not to leave this guy alone. After all, what if he couldn't find anywhere to spend the night? Dean could picture, so easily, the brunet huddled on this very bench beneath his trench coat, eyes shut tightly as he tried to sleep, cold seeping through skin, taking root in bone, bringing organs to a stop...He shook his head to snap himself out of those thoughts.

Instead of walking away, Dean lowered himself onto the bench and sat by Blue Eyes' side.

“I'm Dean,” he told him, the brunet's eyes narrowed and his head tilted to one side, as if utterly fascinated by the fact that Dean had chosen to stay with him rather than simply walk away.

“You work in the coffeehouse,” Blue Eyes said, and Dean gave a taught smile.

“Yeah. You, uh, kind of freaked me out that day.”

“I did?” Blue Eyes' tone was full of curiosity. 

“Well...” Dean shifted, “You stared at me a lot.” A pause passed after that, another bout of wind whirling around them, grabbing at their hair, their clothes, and Blue Eyes' features softened to the point that he was almost smiling. 

“I had a good reason for that,” he admitted, and Dean's lips parted and green eyes blinked. Momentarily, Dean wondered what he meant by that, but the instant his mind latched onto a possibility, the blond's eyes widened and he was desperate to get his mind away from it. He was almost definitely wrong, and he couldn't bear to entertain the possibility that he might not have been.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Castiel,” Blue Eyes replied, and Dean's eyebrows raised.

“Cast...Cas-”

“Castiel,” Castiel repeated, no slower than before and in exactly the same tone, but this time Dean nodded.

“Castiel?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Well, Castiel,” Dean said after a clearing of his throat, “You can't stay here all night.”

“I'll figure something out,” Castiel assured him, lips thinned and pressed together into something close to a smile again. It was as if the guy had been trying to learn how to smile but had yet to fully grasp the concept. As soon as that thought crossed Dean's mind, he wished it hadn't. It sent a jolt of sadness through him, cruel electric sparks fraying parts of him. He hoped that, in some part of his life far removed from any beating, Castiel had something to smile genuinely about. 

“No,” Dean insisted calmly, “Listen, my place is a half hour walk from here. There's plenty of room. No way you're staying out here all night and dying from hypothermia.”

Castiel didn't respond at first, other than by looking at Dean.

“You're...” he blinked, “inviting me to your home?” Dean nodded in response and Castiel tilted his head again, “Why?”

“Because you're a mess,” Dean chuckled, “No offence.”

“Aren't you wondering if I deserved it?” Castiel asked, eyes fixed firmly on Dean, as though he were entranced and fascinated by the being by his side.

“Nobody's perfect,” Dean shrugged, “And no, actually. I wasn't wondering.”

 

***

 

The state of his home never bothered Dean until there were visitors. The dank, poorly lit stairwell didn't phase him, nor did the carpets inside the flat that were so thin they'd torn in places frequently walked over; or the off-white wall paper that peeled in places; or the mould around his bedroom window and the doors that squealed when opened. He was as accustomed to these things as he was to glimpsing morning sky and knowing that the sun would rise. This was, for now at least, his home, and he'd learned to be comfortable enough here that its flaws were insignificant. They'd slipped from his radar.

Tonight, however, was different. Castiel had the bluest eyes Dean had ever seen, and as he quietly raked them across the small flat, Dean could only imagine how the place must look to him. Dingy, disorganised, plain. Dean was tense, waiting for Castiel to make a comment on the place, and wishing he had something better to call his own.

It was in moments like this, seeing these things through the eyes of others, that Dean remembered he wanted something better. Some day. 

“It's not much,” Dean forced out, hands nervously worrying the hem of his shirt, “but it does the job for now. Landlord's an ass and doesn't want us changing anything. Can't even hang pictures up.”

“It's nice,” Castiel's eyes flicked from the walls now and landed on Dean so suddenly and unexpectedly that it sent something sharp and hot through the blond, startling him and gluing their eyes together. “Modest.”

“What?” Dean could have sworn Castiel had moved his lips but hadn't spoken.

“I said it's modest,” Castiel told him, “Your home.”

“It won't be forever,” Dean said, assuring himself rather than Castiel, who narrowed his eyes, confused.

“Modest?”

“My home,” Dean corrected, and Castiel's expression softened and he nodded.

Charlie wasn't home. Dean had peered into the living room and knocked on her bedroom door to no avail, and it was only afterwards that he noticed that the hall held the growingly familiar scent of the body spray she wore out. With that in mind, Dean nodded towards the living room door, a gesture for Castiel to follow him there, and he did. Dean held the door open with his finger tips and watched as Castiel slipped through it, body pulled into itself slightly, arms pressed against his side and head angled towards the floor. The way he held himself, Dean thought, made him seem almost apologetic to the air for moving through it, like his being here was bothering the room. Was that how Castiel always held himself in someone else's home? Or was he simply feeling more vulnerable and unsure of himself tonight, troubled by whatever it was that had happened to him earlier?

At Dean's behest, Castiel lowered himself to the couch and sank into it with a small, low noise of satisfaction. Dean let the door slip shut and smiled small, the corners of his lips quirking with it. 

“Better than a park bench?” he asked, and Castiel leaned his head slowly back to rest against the back of the couch.

“Very much,” fatigue had crept into his voice, his eyes slipping shut as Dean pulled a clean face cloth from the cupboard beneath the sink. “Thank you.”

“No sleeping yet,” Dean said, though his eyes had lingered momentarily on the brunet before he spoke. He pulled a chair from beneath the kitchen table, dragged it to the living room, turned it so its back was facing Castiel and swung a leg over it. Castiel opened his eyes to a slight flush in Dean's cheeks. Dean was sure of it. If the colour hadn't been there, the heat certainly had, and it was bothersome. Castiel didn't speak, and Dean sighed softly before he looked at the brunet again, “I soaked this in warm water. It'll get the blood off your face. You can sleep after that, but I'm taking the couch. You need somewhere more comfortable.”

“You don't have to do that, Dean,” Castiel sat forward, those eyes of his so burning, so intense, the spark of them so easy to lose yourself in, Dean thought, staring.

“I know,” he said dumbly after a pause, snapping himself out of whatever Castiel's eyes did to people. He handed him the cloth and said, “Here.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said politely, looking at the cloth for a moment before bringing it to his face. Dean was suddenly at a loss for how to occupy himself. In his own home, this was a foreign feeling. His eyes fixed on the kitchen floor, he wanted to look at Castiel and at the same time he didn't. He imagined it would seem odd to Castiel if Dean watched him wipe dried blood from his face, but his eyes were drawn to the brunet all the same, like there was something about him that made him different from everyone else; something a person couldn't quite get their head around unless they looked a little longer at Castiel than they would at regular people. 

And so he watched, brought his head up and tried to feel at ease setting his eyes on the brunet. Castiel brought his hand to wipe blood from his stubble with the cloth now, and Dean's eyes fell to the veins on the back of Castiel's hand. Castiel's eyes moved to the cloth when he was done, holding it before his face and staring at the dark reddish brown against the cloth's white. He frowned, Dean's eyes on his lips, and then looked at the blond.

“I've made a mess of your cloth,” Castiel's frown deepened, “Sorry...”

“When someone makes a mess of your face,” Dean started with a short, breathy chuckle, “it's okay to get stuff dirty if it gets you cleaned up. Not that I think...that your face is a mess. I mean, it looks painful but not...” He trailed off after that, a heat rising so quickly to his cheeks that he had to move before it flustered him. He stood up from the chair and had just opened his mouth to excuse himself to the bathroom when he noticed it. Castiel had missed some of the blood. It was caught in the stubble below his left nostril, and before he even had time to register what he was doing, Dean had taken the cloth carefully from Castiel and was sitting down again. The brunet's eyes were closely trained on Dean, and the blond tried to ignore the warmth of his cheeks again,lips slightly parted as he dabbed the cloth gently against Castiel's face.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, that voice so matter of fact still, but not as even this time as it had been earlier.

“Shh,” Dean quietly hushed, “Don't talk while I get this.” Castiel did as he was told now, mouth shut and eyes glued to Dean as the taller man wiped away the remainder of the dried blood, that reddish brown coming away and revealing skin not quite as pale as Dean's. Satisfied, Dean lowered the cloth, and his eyes with it, clearing his throat as Castiel leaned back on the couch once more.

“Thank you,” he was quieter this time, voice brimming with a deeper sincerity now, as though Dean had performed a crucial favour.

“Welcome,” Dean replied, muscles more tense than before, his fingers clutching so tightly at the cloth that cool drips of water were squeezed onto his thigh. He stood up once more, this time moving to the sink and dropping the cloth into it. He leaned against the sink for a moment, rinsing his hands and taking a deep breath before he turned back to Castiel. He blinked a few times, almost as if he couldn't quite believe that this man- this practical stranger- was sitting on Dean's couch with a black eye and a curious gaze, observing the room. When his eyes fell back to Dean, Dean saw him swallow.

“I can leave if you'd like,” Castiel said, and something twinged unpleasantly in Dean's stomach.

“Don't worry, Cas,” Dean waved the hand that hadn't instinctively gone to his stomach, “The couch isn't much but there' no way I'm turfing you out.”

“Why?” Cas tilted his head again, “You barely know me.”

“I don't trust you to find somewhere decent to stay. Like I said before.”

“Oh,” Cas said, then seemed to settle, sinking into the couch a little more, relaxing at Dean's promise not to make him leave. His eyes roamed the room again, like he was still processing his surroundings, and Dean tried not to stare at him. His hand slipped from his stomach and he moved the kitchen chair back to its table and took a seat by Cas' side on the couch. 

For the next handful of minutes, neither man said a word. Dean was focussed on his own breathing, taking shallow, quiet breaths like he was worried his breathing might seem unnaturally loud against the near silence. Cas' breathing, Dean noticed, was slower and deeper than Dean's usually was. For the last minute or so before he ended the silence, there was one question whirling through his mind, beginning to burn.

“Who did that to you?” the words spilled from Dean's full lips eventually, and the blue eyes that landed on him were gentle, hints of anguish swirling through them that struck Dean hard and made him wish he'd never asked. He held up a hand. “Never mind. That's...it's not my business.” He looked away after that, but he could feel that Castiel hadn't.

“Do you have any siblings?” was Cas' response, and Dean's eyes moved back to him, confused for a moment and then assuming Cas was simply trying to change the subject.

“A kid brother,” Dean nodded, “Name's Sammy. Sam.”

“You get along with each other,” Castiel gave a small, almost sad smile, “I can tell from the nickname.”

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed, “Most of the time, anyway.”

“My brothers and I don't.”

“Don't what?” Dean blinked, shifting his weight and slouching a little on the couch now.

“Get along,” Castiel frowned. The silence that landed on them in the wake of those words was heavy and uneasy, at least as far as Dean was concerned. Part of him wanted Cas to elaborate, to explain exactly what he meant by those weighted words. The other part of him, however, reminded him about the guilt he had felt just moments ago at asking Castiel something so personal. Both parts pulled him in different ways, petulant children tugging a sleeve each as Dean tried to gauge which was the best- the wisest- to follow. 

In the end he couldn't help himself.

“Are you telling me your brothers did this to you?” he scoffed, incredulous at the notion of brothers leaving each other in such states. Cas' frown deepened at that, eyes gentle and morose as they flicked away from his host. Castiel wrapped his arms around himself now, as though suddenly cold or fearful, and Dean had all the confirmation he needed. He wasn't slouching anymore. He was sitting up straight, eyes wider than usual and his body angled towards the brunet, who frowned at his own knees. “Jesus, Cas. Why the hell would they do that to you?”

“My family is complicated, Dean,” Castiel admitted, and in mere moments he seemed to have paled considerably. He still couldn't meet Dean's green eyes. “Can we just pretend I didn't tell you anything?”

“You barely have told me any-”

“Please,” Cas' voice was firmer now, and it stopped Dean in his tracks. Blue eyes landed on him now, and Cas' voice was softer again, “I don't want to think about it.”

Maybe it was because of the state Dean had found Cas in. Or maybe it was the big, sad blue eyes or how softly spoken the guy usually was, but Dean didn't press for more information after that. He wasn't entirely sure why, though. What would he have done with the information anyway? Tracked down Cas' brothers? Yelled at them? Used his fists to force feed them their own medicine? Castiel was still practically a stranger to him. It should have seemed ludicrous for Dean to be having thoughts like that- so angered and protective- and yet there they were. His theory was, however, that the thing that made him disarm those thoughts had little to do with Cas' eyes, his voice, his bruises. He hadn't said he didn't want to talk about his brothers. He'd said he didn't want to think about them, as though doing so would be unbearably troubling or traumatic for him, After all else the guy had been through tonight, Dean didn't want to inflict that on him too. He couldn't bear the thought, actually.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean conceded with a soft sight. Castiel's features softened in relief and Dean leaned back now. His eyes were on Cas' shoulder only moments before his hand was, resting upon it in the hope that it would bring the brunet some kind of comfort. Cas' eyes slipped shut at that, and he slouched, moving to lean his head of thick, dark loose waves of hair upon Dean's shoulder now. Dean's heart was pounding hard, kicking up such a storm in his chest that he was certain Cas was able to hear it, or feel it. A warmth flooded through him now, though butterflies flapped desperately at the lining of his stomach. Without even thinking about it, Dean moved his hand from Cas' shoulder to the back of the brunet's head, fingers beginning to rub delicate circles into the other man's scalp. Cas emitted a quiet noise of approval, and Dean swallowed down part of his nervousness and continued. Something about the gesture simply felt right, as though someone were completing a puzzle of the two of them sitting on this couch, and Dean's hand in Cas' hair was the final piece.

“You know,” Castiel murmured, voice laced with heavy fatigue, “Nobody calls me Cas.”

“Well,” Dean started, voice so quiet it was verging on a whisper, “now somebody does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment. I'd love to hear from you!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter describes a vivid, very disturbing recurring nightmare that Dean has about John's death.

It always began the same way. Dean would be stumbling through a corridor only vaguely familiar, but he would know exactly where he was. As foreign as the physical experiences were- the stubborn chill clinging to the air, the clinical stench that burst into his nostrils and hit the back of his throat- the sights were not unfamiliar. He was no stranger to television, to movies. The long corridors flanked by numbered doors and surrounded by walls a painful white were almost unmistakable. Faceless figures in long white coats would pass him by, but they would neither speak to him nor make the slightest hint of any other sound, and he would feel impossibly far away from them even as their shoulders brushed against his. 

He would know that this hospital wasn't exactly like the real one in his memory, and yet he would know it was supposed to be. There were too many unattended gurneys, the hall was full of a winter fog that rose, in thick curls, to Dean's calves, and it was as though someone, somewhere, had muted everything but Dean's heavy footsteps. When he eventually reached the double doors at the end of the long corridor, he wouldn't be able to read the plaque upon it. Its simple black lettering was somehow incomprehensible to Dean, as though he were staring at new and indecipherable symbols rather than the alphabet he'd known since he was four. 

“Dean?” the deep voice would be instantly recognisable to Dean despite being somewhat muffled. 

“I'm here,” Dean would respond, eyes sliding from the plaque to the rectangular window in the door.

“Help me,” the voice would sound surprisingly even and stable for someone in need of help, and even though Dean couldn't see him, he knew where he needed to go. “Dean...”

Dean would push the double doors open then, staggering through them as though drunk or disorientated, and would make his way down shallow stairs with clumsy feet. 

“Dad?” Dean would call, the cold steaming the breath that poured from his lips. 

“Dean!” John's voice would call in response, and Dean would quicken his pace.

“Dad!” Dean would shout, an urgency tangled in his voice now as his shoulder would collide with a door to his left and he'd stumble inside and shout again, “Dad!”

The room he would find himself in was large and almost completely dark, the only exception the gurney in its centre, a sheet as white as he walls draped over whatever was resting upon the gurney. And Dean would make his way towards it slowly, aware that it wasn't as easy to breathe anymore and that, somewhere, Sam was beginning to sob, his distant wails echoing throughout the darkened room as Dean struggled to take breaths but kept walking towards the gurney. His chest would feel tighter, like something was gripping his lungs too strongly for them to work properly anymore, and by the time he reached the gurney, his hand reaching to pull away the sheet, he would be gasping for air with increasing desperation. 

He would never know why he was doing it, but every time, without fail, he would grip the white sheet. Though part of him knew what was coming, he would convince himself he was mistaken, curl his fingers into his handful of the sheet, and peel it slowly back. 

That's when he would see it. It would be the same thing he had seen every time, and yet every time felt identical to the first. 

John's face was pasty and pale. His lips were dry, cracked and colourless. His hair was tousled and out of place ad the head wound that had killed him was a dark and prominent red- almost brown. And as much as he would want to run, to turn and flee, Dean couldn't. It was harder to breathe, his breaths shorter and more panicked as he would stare, unable to do otherwise, at the lifeless face of the body that lay upon the gurney. The lifeless face of the man who had raised him.

“Dad...” Dean would whisper among broken breaths that were desperate for more air than he could remember how to take. 

“Dean,” John's lips would move. His eyes would snap open in that instant, and before Dean could recoil, John's hand would grab suddenly for his son's wrist. He would grip Dean's wrist so tightly that Dean wouldn't be able to pull himself free when he tried. Eyes a dull and empty grey, John's body would slowly sit up now. Dean wouldn't, by now, be able to breathe. His wrist would feel as though it were beginning to give in John's grip, as though on the verge of shattering in the dead man's hand. With that, his father's face would turn to him, dead eyes locking onto the fear in Dean's. Dean would try to speak but would be unable. And then John would utter, “Help me.”

His face shifted from its remarkable paleness into a deathly grey, the would opening wider by the second, and blood would begin to fall from it. First it trickled, but then it would pour. Deathly grey skin turned darker yet, and was almost green by the time it would begin to thin before Dean's eyes, like it was dissolving clumps at a time, skin and blood slipping and spilling until all that was left was bone. And Dean would be left staring into the empty eyes of his father's skull, and would be paralysed- unable to move, unable to breathe. And all the while, Sammy's wailing would fill the room from a distance. 

That was when, with a panicked start, Dean would wake. Always. For all the night he'd had the dream, he'd yet to wake up before that point and he'd yet to be forced to see what might next have unfolded. 

He'd wake up panting, gasping for breath with his duvet tangled around his legs. A thin layer of sickly cold sweat would coat his face, his torso and his back, and he'd know he was shaking from it even before he tried to sit up. He had, by now, taken to keeping a bucked on the floor by the side of his bed in case, like the first two nights he suffered that nightmare, he couldn't prevent himself from vomiting afterwards. 

Pages of his sketchbook he'd filled with images of the corridor with its discarded gurneys and ghostly fog. On others he'd draw the stairs or the door to the room John's body was in. And he'd drawn the body in its various states of decay. 

The night he spent asleep with Castiel on the couch was the first time for days that he didn't have the nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to comment. I'd love to hear from you! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some time has passed and some thoughts are scaring Dean.

Two Fridays later, it started to snow. It started early this year, December still a few weeks away, but the last few days had grown strangely and particularly cold. It was as though the world had grown bitter and was exacting revenge for some wrong it had suffered. Cas liked snow. He'd told Dean that on Thursday evening over mugs of hot chocolate that steamed in their faces in the corner booth after Dean's shift. And it had snowed the next morning, as though somehow Cas had sensed it. 

He'd spent the first two nights after his beating on Dean and Charlie's couch, wrapped in a spare duvet and curled into a ball. Since then, he'd dipped into a savings account to put himself up in the hotel ten minutes from Dean's home. He'd been there for ten days now, and as far as Dean knew, his brothers had no idea where he was and, thankfully, they didn't seem to be looking. Cas' black eye had almost completely faded now, and within the last week he'd spent the majority of his time in Dean's company. Dean would steal glances as the brunet sat, as usual, in the corner booth, hunched over a notebook, losing himself in it so effortlessly, filling the pages faster than Dean would be able to think of something to even write about. Other times, Cas would lean over a newspaper, eyes gliding through article after article until he'd read them all, sometimes frowning, sometimes wearing that soft almost-smile that always sent sparks of electricity through Dean, and sent shivers down his spine. 

It snowed for hours, heavily. Cas had turned his body towards the coffehouse's window shortly after he'd arrived. That way, when he wanted to glimpse the snow, all he had to do was simply raise his head. Dean lost count of how many bowls of soup he made in a surprising lunch time rush, but by two thirty, Cas was the only customer and Dean the only remaining staff member, aside from his boss. Two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands, Dean slid into the booth opposite Cas, greeting him with a grin and pushing one of the mugs across the table to him. 

“You didn't have to,” Cas' eyes moved from the paper to the steam rising from the mug, and then landed on Dean's eyes. He blushed, and Dean wondered too quickly, without meaning to, how the heat of Cas' cheeks would feel upon Dean's lips. It was Dean's turn to blush now, dropping his eyes from Cas and casting them toward the window, feigning fascination at the snow. He cleared his throat and imagined himself outside in the snow, hoping the thought would cool him somewhat.

“I wanted to,” he said.

“Thank you then,” there was an odd delicacy tucked into the gravel of Cas' voice. The brunet pulled the newspaper shut, smoothed a hand over its front page and took his first sip of the hot chocolate. Dean could see him in the corner of his eye, and looked back to him when he gave a satisfied sigh at the first gulp of his drink. “You make the best hot chocolate I've ever had, Dean.”

“So that's why you're hanging out with me so much,” Dean teased, a lopsided grin tugging at one corner of his lips. Castiel gave a short, quiet chuckle and planted those wide, soft eyes upon Dean, staring at him and smiling like he knew something wonderful that Dean didn't. “Jeez, Cas. You stare a lot, you know?”

“Yes,” Cas replied evenly, “You've mentioned it a few times.”

“That usually means stop,” Dean chuckled, and Cas' smile grew.

“Would you like me to stop?”

“Would you stop if I said yes?” Dean challenged, eyebrows raised, and Cas took another sip of hot chocolate. 

“I don't think I'd be able to,” the brunet replied, voice a fraction more quiet than before, “Even if I wanted-”

“Please don't finish that sentence, Cas...” Dean softly interrupted, hands nervously beginning to tear at the corner of Cas' newspaper. He took a deep breath after that, knowing that Cas wouldn't force an explanation. But he would benefit from one, deserved one. Dean's eyes slipped shut and Cas didn't say anything. He was patient, Dean noted, and with his heart hammering unpleasantly in his chest, he was grateful to him for that. Another deep breath failed to calm him, and so it dawned on him that perhaps nothing was going to, no matter how long he waited or how many breaths he took. “We're friends, and I'm glad we are. But, uh...dude, I don't...I don't swing that way.” Dean practically scoffed.

There. He'd said it, so now all of this could stop. Cas was his buddy, like Charlie, and like Ash and Jo. He wasn't anything more than that, like Lisa had been years ago. His body could stop trying to trick his mind into thinking of Cas in that way. This should have been a weight from his shoulders. Relief should have washed over him in calming waves. He should have been able to smile, to chuckle at the misunderstanding, to finish his drink.

Instead his breath came out shaky and his fingers began to gently tremble at the paper's frayed corner. His stomach churned dreadfully, pumping blasts of nausea through him until he felt almost fit to dissolve into tears. 

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to be like this.

“Oh,” Cas said, voice as gentle as his frown, and it was such a simple, short little word but it sliced into Dean's gut like a knife. Cas looked down now, eyes falling to the mug he'd wrapped his fingers around. “My mistake. I'm sorry.” His voice was soft, hurt, a mumble before a futile attempt at a smile that made it harder for Dean to breathe. His chest felt like it was heaving, tears pushing at his eyes and threatening to become obvious.

“Be right back,” Dean forced out, voice strained as he pulled himself clumsily from the booth. He walked quickly across the coffeehouse floor to the door that led to the bathrooms, opening both doors with a shove of his shoulder and barely giving them time to fully open before he moved through them. In the men's room, he pulled a set of keys from a loop of his belt and locked the entrance behind him. Gripping the keys tight, he stumbled towards the sinks, grabbing the edge of one with his free hand as he choked on a sob now. 

He'd comforted Castiel. He'd had the guy's head on his shoulder and massaged his scalp until they both fell asleep. He'd put him up for another night after that and they'd spent it talking; about novels, movies Cas hadn't seen, places Dean hadn't heard of that Cas wanted to visit. Dean had wanted to watch the movies with him, had pictures them both in those places Cas enthused over. For the two weeks since then, those thoughts hadn't left him. He'd been forcing himself not to jerk off for fear that Cas' would be the face and the body in his mind's eye, that his would be the name tumbling involuntarily from Dean's lip in the heat of climax, and the relationship he'd have to reassess in the sobering, post-orgasmic come down. 

Cas was on his mind when he didn't intend him to be; when he wanted to be working, sketching, teaching himself how to grieve more healthily. When Sammy wasn't there it was easy to pretend that John was simply far away, out of reach on a job somewhere and that he'd come back and take his boys out for burgers and Cas would go too, of course. And John would tell Dean what he thought of Cas, and then he'd take Sam home and life would be as it had been. Except Cas would be there. He wanted to share these thoughts with Cas, to find confide in him and find comfort in him. He worried about Sammy. He really did. He'd been distant and quiet last weekend, and had left early. Cas had spent the weekend in the hotel, giving the brothers some time together, but all the while, Dean pictured Cas there with them. The spare chair at their cafe table was Cas'; the spot between them on the couch; the lulls in their conversation Dean spent wondering what Cas would be saying during them if he were there. And at night he would glance to the empty side of his bed and wonder how Cas would lie in it, the noises he might make in his sleep, and how it might feel to wake up on sleepy Sundays with Cas' skin pressed against his.

And all of that scared the crap out of Dean. 

What would his father think? Or his friends, Bobby, or Sam? Tough, strong Dean Winchester was terrified of something. He'd been hailed his entire life for his bravery, and now here he was at twenty, locked in a bathroom, scared to tears by the things that his body did when Cas was around, the way the brunet made him feel, and the things that all of this had been screaming at him from the beginning. 

“I don't swing that way,” Dean had said. Dean had scoffed, as though Cas were foolish for thinking him that way, or somehow lesser than him for being that way himself. 

“Fuck,” Dean whispered, peeling his eyes open and facing his reflection at last. He looked too pale. His eyes were puffy and red, his face a similar shade aside from the tear tracks. With his sleeves, he wiped quickly at his cheeks, told himself he could fix this, heal the wound he'd just created between them. He'd go back to the booth, apologise for his remark, how blunt and how rude it was, and then he'd invite Cas to meet Sam. He'd ask him to walk with Dean to the train station after shift, and on the way he'd tell him quietly that he just needed time. Then they'd spend the weekend with Sam, and Dean would deal with the rest on Monday. 

He unlocked the door with hands more clumsy than usual, breathing deeply again to steady himself when he swung open the second door. His green eyes, oddly heavy from crying, darted to Cas' booth, his mouth open to speak before he'd even started towards it. But as the door to the bathrooms swung shut behind him, hitting his back gently, Dean stopped in his tracks, frowning.

The table was cleared and the booth empty.

Cas was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna comment? Do ya? You totally should :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Sam and Dean time.

Sam's train was late, and as Dean waited on the platform and leaned against a vending machine, he was too distracted to register how cold it was. Hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes were fixed so distantly on the tracks that he had fallen into a trance by the time the train pulled in. He couldn't recall how long he'd been waiting, but in that short time he'd lost himself in thoughts of Castiel; the sadness in those blue eyes earlier, the frown that tugged the corners of his lips down and made him look so troubled, so much older and hurt than Dean had wanted him to look.

He wondered what Cas would be doing now. He pictured him sitting alone in some dingy hotel room, hunched over a novel at a rickety desk, or slouched on the uncomfortable bed staring at the more gentle snowfall, frowning at his thoughts as he did. Was he still thinking about Dean? What if Cas had simply accepted Dean's words and already put thoughts of him to the back of his mind, started to move on? What if he moved on from whatever it was that was beginning to develop between them? What if he did that, and Dean couldn't because he needed time that everybody else was progressing too quickly to let him have? And then a thought jumped into his mind that he didn't even want to have.

What if Cas found someone else?

“Dean?” a hand was waved in front of his face, startling him out of his thoughts. He jumped. Eyes snapping to the person before him, Dean relaxed when his eyes met Sam's.

“Hey, Sammy,” he sighed, forcing a polite smile afterwards and ignoring his brother's eye roll at the nickname. He peeled himself from the vending machine, gave his brother a quick pat on the arm and began to trudge towards the station's exit. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Not hungry,” Sam replied, in something close to a mumble. Just as they stepped outside, Dean realised that Sam's tone reflected how Dean felt, and then his brother cleared his throat and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean lied, “I'm fine, Sammy. Are you?”

“Sure,” Sam replied, and for the rest of their journey to Dean's flat neither said another word. 

Charlie was home tonight. Dean knew from the unlocked door to the flat and the warm smell of some home made meal that wafted to him almost the moment he stepped inside. He wandered to the kitchen, his mind still latched to thoughts of Cas, like Velcro too stubborn to be easily pulled apart. 

“Hey, Dean,” Charlie greeted him happily, and a pang of guilt struck Dean at the fact that he wished he had the place to himself tonight. He loved Charlie like a sister, and he adored Sam more than he'd ever be able to say, but his mind just wasn't where they were tonight. Sam appeared behind him in the doorway and Charlie greeted him too, just as cheerfully. Maybe Sam felt the same way that Dean did tonight. That their time together was arranged so formally, so precisely structured that this would be better for both of them if they were more used to each other again, if the silences were easier, their time together more casual, not forced into a schedule.

“Hi,” Sam nodded to Charlie, giving a small smile and squeezing past Dean into the living room. “Smells good in here.”

“Glad you think so,” something in her eyes sparkled with her smile, “I made enough for all of us. And there'll be leftovers because, apparently, Cas isn't glued to your brother's hip.”

“Cas?” Sam asked.

Cas.

“A friend of ours,” Charlie informed him, and then her eyes landed on Dean, “A friend of Dean's really.”

“We're not very hungry,” Dean mumbled, eyes distant again, this time caught on the small table in the corner of the kitchen, where Charlie had already set four places and was already beginning to put plates on three of the four table mats.

“Well,” Charlie started, tucking a stray strand of her ginger hair behind an ear, “You're eating what you can.” She made her way to him now, practically bounding before she reached up to Dean's shoulders and slipped behind him. She pushed him forward gently, and at her behest he stumbled forward and she began to steer the eldest Winchester to the table, Sam's eyes on them throughout. Charlie snapped her fingers after Dean was seated, gesturing for Sam to do the same.

“I'm really not hungry,” Sam waved a hand dismissively, and Charlie narrowed her eyes in mock anger.

“You're eating what you can,” she told him again, voice firm despite the delicate smile beginning to lift her features, and then it fell, and her expression fell close to grave. “Grief does strange things to people. You need to stay healthy.” Sam relented after that, moving to sit opposite Dean, who was already pushing small potatoes around his plate, eyes fixed on the chicken breast as Charlie took her seat and started with the vegetables.

The rest of the night passed in an array of heavy silences between bouts of conversation mostly led by Charlie. Dean ate more than Sam, and in the off chance that they might want to finish the meals the following day, she cleared the table and left their plates in the fridge. Dean spent the rest of the evening slouched on the couch, his head propped up in one hand and his eyes on his lap. Charlie and Sam discussed niceties and generic topics like the snow, high school and the price of train fares until they fell into a more lively discussion about technology, the workings of computers that Dean wasn't able to get his head around. He zoned out gradually, mind falling back to the way he'd spoken to Cas earlier today, the fact that he'd believed the way he felt would stop simply because he willed it so. But in the end all he gained was a sickly guilt that had been churning through him like a slow working poison ever since.

“I'm going to bed,” he dismissed himself from their company just shy of 10pm. The worried look that Charlie settled over him lasted only as long as it took him to frown at her for it. Sam wished him a quiet goodnight and Dean knew as soon as he lay down in bed that he wasn't going to be sleeping tonight. 

He stayed in bed, nonetheless, until the muffled din of Sam and Charlie's conversation was replaced by familiar sounds of the bathroom door closing twice, Charlie calling a quiet goodnight to whoever could hear. He waited another half an hour after that, hoping sleep would reach him, would whisk him away and let him rest, like batteries recharging, and that tonight he could be granted a dreamless sleep. When sleep didn't come, however, he swung his legs out of the bed and pulled himself out of it, stretching his arms high above his head and yawning before tugging on a pair of jeans and grabbing his sketchbook from his desk. 

Frowning softly at his own fatigue and the thoughts that had been racing fast enough to keep that fatigue from pulling him into sleep, Dean padded to the living room. His sketchbook tucked beneath one arm, he pushed the door to the living room open with his shoulder, rolled his eyes at its stubborn squeak that always seemed louder at night. Almost as soon as he stepped inside, however, Dean was startled from his haze. 

“Hey,” a voice came from the couch, and Dean jumped so hard that he instinctively raised his fists. The sketchbook clattered to the floor. Sam held up his hands in defence, and the moment Dean realised it was his brother who'd startled him, he relaxed. His shoulders slumped and his arms fell to his sides. 

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean was careful to keep his gruff voice quiet as he leaned down to scoop up his sketch book, “I forgot you were here.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, Dean closing the door, “You've been out of it all night.”

“I'm fine,” Dean shot Sam a look. Sam responded by raising his hands in defence again as Dean took a eat at the table, turning his chair slightly so he could still see his brother. 

“Okay,” Sam nodded, features falling close to a frown, “Whatever you say, Dean.”

“Oh,” Dean bit, “what the hell does that mean?” One hand gripped hard at the edge of the table, the other curled into a fist on the cover of sketchbook, nails digging into skin. His jaw was set, eyes firm and hard on his sibling. 

“Relax,” Sam told his brother, “I'm not arguing with you, Dean. I'm just saying. Something's been bugging you all night and you've said about ten words.” Sam's voice carried a hint of annoyance throughout, but his features softened the moment he reached the end of his sentence. Dean opened his mouth to say something in his own defence, but a few moments later he realised he felt too exhausted to argue, to do anything other than sigh. He did so, one hand now flat on the sketchbook's cover, the other at his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. Sam stood up from the couch, eyes barely leaving Dean as he made his way to join his brother at the table, “What's going on?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Dean tried to sound firm, but he could hear it himself. He just sounded tired. 

“Dean,” Sam warned, and the elder brother merely nodded. 

“Okay,” it was Dean's turn to hold up a hand, “Okay, okay, Sam. It's been a rough day. That's all.”

“What happened?” Sam asked, and Dean flicked his green eyes to him now. Most people would consider Sam a kid. His age, his looks, every physical aspect of him would understandably lead to such a conclusion from someone who didn't know him. But scratch beneath that surface and it was clear that his mind was older than everything else about him. Their family life had started going downhill when Sam was just six months old, and throughout his childhood he'd been forced to grow up faster than he should have. They both had. Sam was no kid. All you had to do to see it was look into his eyes. Really look.

“I had a fight with Cas,” Dean confessed with a sigh, “Kinda.”

“That's what's eating you?” Sam raised his eyebrows, “An argument?”

“I hurt his feelings,” Dean admitted, and the confusion on Sam's face grew, “I feel bad that I upset the guy, okay? That's all.”

“You're getting pretty good at these chick flick moments, Dean.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean's eyes fell to his sketchbook now.

“Is there a reason you can't just apologise?” Sam leaned back in his chair, eyes on Dean's hands that were absently beginning to flick through the book's pages. He stopped when Sam said that, the younger Winchester leaning to the side, curious eyes trying to catch a glimpse of Dean's sketches.

“I guess not,” Dean blinked, wondering how Sam was able to make it all sound so easy. Sam didn't know the full extent. It would take more than just a simple apology. He needed to think about this a lot, needed to know if he was going to tell Cas the truth- that he'd lied to his face and expected to feel better for it. 

“Then apologise,” Sam's eyes were back on Dean, “You were losing sleep over something you can fix with an apology?”

“What were you losing sleep over, smartass?” Dean evaded the question. He couldn't explain this to Sam, how complicated it was, how much the very thought terrified Dean. What if Sam thought differently of him for how he felt? What if he laughed at him or recoiled in disgust? What if, on top of everything else, Dean asking Sam to help him make sense of all of this would be too much for his brother?

“I, uh...” Sam shifted awkwardly in his seat, “It's nothing.”

“Sammy,” Dean frowned, “Come on, man. You drag answers out of me, don't think I'm not gonna do the same.” Sam sighed after that, eyes on the table as he began to worry his bottom lip. Dean waited, watching as Sam waded through whatever thoughts were churning through his head. He looked so damn weary.

“I...” Sam started, and Dean kept kind and patient green eyes on the teen, “I have these dreams. About...about Dad. Is that...I mean...Is that normal?” His eyes were fixed expectantly on Dean now. Dean blinked, Sam's eyes sending him flashbacks to their childhood; the days when Sam would look at Dean just like this. Like Dean had the capacity to solve all of Sam's problems, like he knew all of the world's secrets and could fix everything with one simple answer. Dean faltered. He knew fine well that Sam wasn't merely having dreams about John. He was having nightmares. Just like Dean was.

“Yeah,” Dean croaked, “Yeah, Sammy. After...everything....I think...I mean, I guess it makes sense.”

“So you think they'll stop?” Sam asked, frowning, worry staining his expression as though he were afraid Dean might not be able to give the answer he hoped for. It made him look older and troubled, and he didn't suit it. Dean missed his brother's genuine smile.

“They have to,” Dean shrugged, unable to hold his brother's weary gaze, “I mean, what's the alternative? It'll get easier, Sammy. It has to. Then maybe we can both get some rest, huh?”

He wished it truly was as simple as that. He wished, in that moment, that their nightmares would simply disappear, that his brother would start to heal and become more like his old self, that their father's death would stop hanging over their every interaction. And he wished that apologising to Cas would be as simple as Sam had made it sound, that he could do so and resume a regular friendship with him. 

Dean wished that his father hadn't died, and he wished that he wasn't attracted to Cas the way he was.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heart to heart with Dean and Cas.
> 
> WARNINGS: One of our boys suffers a panic attack in this chapter, and Dean is still struggling with his sexuality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on I'll be posting updates whenever I get the chance. Sadly I've had a lot of course work lately and have found very little time to write. Normal service shall be resumed as soon as life stops getting in the way.

Cas' hotel wasn't as dingy as Dean had expected it to be. For all the time they'd spent together over the last two weeks, Dean had only ever exchanged goodbyes with Cas at the door. He'd never set foot inside. On Saturday morning, however, he did, though he barely paused to inspect or admire the small, cramped lobby before crossing it. The receptionist looked up from the computer he had been slouched before, sitting up straight and offering Dean a non committal smile that Dean responded to with only a nod. 

“How can I help you?” the man greeted, eyebrows rising to pull his expression into one of expectancy.

“I'm looking for a friend of mine,” Dean explained, trying hard not to let his nervousness show. He wanted to wring his hands, to worry the hem of his shirt, to bite at his lip in the hope that it would distract him enough to ease his nerves. Instead he pushed his hands deep into his pockets and dug his nails into his thighs instead. “He's been staying here for a couple weeks and I really need to talk to him.”

“I can't tell you his room number,” the receptionist informed him, “But if you give me his name I can call the room and ask for his permission to tell you.”

“His name's Castiel. Castiel Novak.”

“And you are?” the receptionist had already brought the phone to his ear, fingers hovering over the buttons as his eyes scanned the computer screen for the room number and corresponding telephone number.

“Dean,” he responded, pulling a hand from his pocket to run it through his short hair- a way to busy himself, a way to speed up time somehow, to move through time rather than let it slowly trickle.

The receptionist eyed his computer screen and twirled a pen absently as the phone rang, and continued the gesture when he began to speak. The man greeted Cas politely and began to explain what was happening. As soon as he began to speak to Cas, began to tell him that Dean was here, Dean's stomach leapt with nervous energy, a blend of excitement and anxiety bounding through him at the knowledge that Cas knew he was there now. Dean took a succession of deep breaths and time to seemed to stretch itself, unbearably slow until the receptionist turned to face him again, placing the phone back down in its receiver. 

“Okay, Dean,” he told him, “Mr. Novak is on the third floor, room five.”

Dean took the stairs to the third floor rather than the elevator. The elevator would have had him there in a mere handful of seconds and he needed more time than that. He steeled his thoughts as he took the stairs slowly, turning thoughts over in his mind, carefully rewording the things he wanted to say as meticulously and precisely as someone would alphabetise books on a shelf. As though his thoughts were pages for Cas to leaf through. He would tell him that he hadn't been honest with Cas yesterday, because he had been trying not to be honest with anyone- with himself even- for a while now. He would tell him that things were complicated in Dean's own head right now, his thoughts made of strings that tangled themselves together until they were knotted and confused and too much for him to be able to sort through effectively. He'd tell him he was sorry and that he just needed time. Before he could figure anything else out, he imagined, he'd need a lot of time. Maybe even time away from Cas, so long as it wasn't Dean's abrasiveness that was responsible for that distance. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas was lingering in the doorway of his room when Dean pushed through the door from the stairwell. He had one foot in the hall and one inside his room, and the moment that Dean saw him he struggled to remember what it was he'd wanted to start by saying, or finish by saying, or what order any of the stuff in the middle was supposed to be in. 

How the hell did Cas do this to people?

“Hey, Cas,” Dean made his way towards his blue eyed friend, forcing a small smile.

“Is everything okay?” Cas asked, and Dean wondered if Cas was observant or just being polite. 

“Sure,” Dean nodded, then frowned at himself, “Well, no. Listen, man...I came by to apologise. I, uh...The way I spoke to you yesterday...I acted like a dick, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.”

There was a silence after that, and the intensity of it sent a shiver down Dean's spine. There were mere feet separating the two men, and Dean was biting down hard on his tongue and hoping that Cas would say something. What if he didn't? His mind ghosted over that thought momentarily. What if Cas simply stared him down, or turned away and shut the door in Dean's face? What if sorry wasn't enough? His chest was tighter and a panicked fear was beginning to creep up on him.

“Would you like to come inside?” Cas asked, his expression unreadable. He was frowning and it was a delicate and simple gesture, but Dean couldn't figure out the thoughts behind it. Was he frowning because the apology wasn't enough? Or was it because Dean was shaking and beginning to move nervously from one foot to the other, his breaths uncomfortably shallow? Dean didn't answer. He didn't need to. Cas stepped aside and gestured with his arm into the room, blue eyes brimming with concern and never leaving Dean. Dean walked forward, slipped past Cas and into the hotel room and didn't stop until he'd reached the room's window on the far wall. 

The door closed gently and Cas' voice was soft as he made his way to the bed in the middle of the room. He stopped at it, leaving Dean with enough space that he felt neither too close nor too far away from him in this moment. He said his name quietly, the delicacy in his deep voice something that Dean wanted to hear more of, wanted to focus on. He still felt the same fear as he had outside the room, as though some higher power was sending him warnings that something awful was about to happen, or maybe already had. Dean's breaths were coming in short, quick spurts and a heavy nausea began to churn through his stomach. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, voice a hoarse whisper. His hands were clutching at his t-shirt as the tightness of his chest worsened, “I can't breathe.” Cas was at his side in an instant after that, his expression troubled by worry, his eyes wider than usual and his lips parted. 

“Dean,” Cas said, his voice firm and even, “Look at me.” He rest his hands on Dean's upper arms gently, but held just a fraction tighter when Dean simply obeyed him, didn't try to pull away or tell him not to touch him. Their eyes were locked on each other and Dean's mind flashed back to the first time the pair had ever met. Cas' eyes had been almost unbearably intense, intimidating and had filled Dean with unease. Here they were now, inches from his own and they were having the opposite effect. They were wide and calming, and Cas' voice was the same. “Take deep breaths. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth slowly, okay?” 

Dean nodded in response and did as Cas told him. Minutes of this passed, and as Dean carefully steadied his breathing, his eyes were either closed tight or lost somewhere in Cas'. By the time Dean's breath had returned to normal, their eyes were fixed on each other's, Cas' hands still on Dean's arms, Dean's resting on Cas' chest. He looked at his own hands, flat against Cas' t-shirt, feeling the heart pounding against the palm of his right hand. He let them slip from him now, and in turn Cas loosened his grip on the older man's arms. 

“Are you okay?” Cas asked, leading Dean to sit on the bed now. Cas took a seat by his side, leaving roughly a foot between them, and with his hands in his lap the brunet fidgeted awkwardly, as if he didn't know what else to do with his hands, with himself. But his eyes stayed on Dean. They were soft with concern and he worried his bottom lip as Dean took a moment to think before he answered.

“Yeah,” Dean told him, his voice flat, “I'm fine, Cas. Thanks.”

“I think you had a panic attack,” Cas said after a moment of hesitation. Dean wondered if he'd considered not saying that, like he thought Dean would be offended by the diagnosis.

“Hm,” Dean hummed in response, his eyes falling from Cas now, fixing themselves on his own dark shoes. He moved one foot softly back and forth over the carpet beneath it, watching as the laces dragged along the ground before being pulled the other way and dragged back to where they had started. He felt distant, as though he was barely even there. If he tried hard enough he could slip away into his mind and leave the world behind. Part of him wanted to, but then Castiel spoke again.

“I accept your apology.”

“What?” Dean looked at him again, brow furrowed.

“The apology you came here to give,” Cas elaborated, patient and quiet, “I accept it.”

“Oh,” was all Dean could say. He was supposed to tell him he lied, that he wished he could figure himself out and get his head around it all before he could consider anything else. He was supposed to confide in Cas more than he'd ever confided in anyone else before-even Sam- and as much as he wanted to, it was as though there was a wall between his brain and his lips, and the words that pressed desperately at him were unable to pass through; blocked. 

“Are you hungry?” Cas asked after a long silence. Without awaiting Dean's answer, he was on his feet and moving to rummage through a drawer in the small bedside table. “I took some takeaway menus from the lobby. We can have anything you want.”

The next two hours passed with minimal conversation. Dean chose to order pizza but after only a slice and a half he couldn't face more. It wasn't like him, and all the while he remained completely aware of the frown that Cas to have permanently adopted. He wondered if Cas even noticed he was frowning so much, and when the brunet barely managed more food than Dean, he remarked quietly that they ought to have shared, and that was when Dean spoke for the first time in what felt like a painfully long time.

“I lied,” he said it quickly. Cas' eyes landed on him and confusion coloured his expression suddenly.

“What?” Cas furrowed his brow. Dean closed his eyes after that. He didn't think he could do this with his eyes lost in Cas', with Cas starting straight into his eyes and straight into him. 

“I lied, Cas. What I said yesterday...about not...I mean...There's all this stuff in my head right now, and it's...getting pretty crazy. It's just...you're important to me, Cas, and lying to you about this stuff makes everything worse and it's not fair to you...”

“It's okay, Dean,” Cas said, and Dean kept his eyes shut. He needed to say what he wanted to.

“It's not,” he shook his head, moving his hands up and down over his own thighs as if to give him something else to focus on, the denim coarse against his smooth palms, “The way I feel when I think about you...Man, it's...it shouldn't be like this. But it is because I don't know how to stop it.”

“So don't try,” Cas offered gently, his hand moving to rest on one of Dean's now, to stop it from its movements on Dean's leg. Dean's eyes snapped open and were met by Cas'. Everything about him in this moment- his eyes, his expression, the delicate squeeze he gave to Dean's hand- was flushed with a tender sincerity that made Dean want to lean closer to him. He forced himself not to. “I've been where you are, Dean. I know how it feels to learn things about yourself and wish with everything you have that it's not true. I've tried not to be gay. And when I realised that it wasn't something I could ever change, I tried to convince myself I never had to tell anyone. I thought...I thought I could pretend to be straight. I'd marry a woman and have some kids and nobody would ever need to know. I wish...I wish that someone had made me understand years ago that there's nothing wrong with being gay, and there's nothing that can make a gay person straight.”

Dean was lost in Cas again, eyes fixed on his as the younger man spoke, his words sending pangs through Dean's chest. He imagined Cas as a teenager, locked in his bedroom in tears over the thoughts he had about other boys. He imagined Cas' eyes without their spark, the way he must have held himself when all he had felt was guilt and self loathing, when all he'd envisaged for his future was a hollow and meaningless lie.

“Cas...” Dean said softly, wanting to reach out and touch him, to comfort him enough that he could make up for all the time Cas spent alone with nobody to so much as tell him it was going to be alright.

“I just...” Cas started, eyes on the hand he still had on Dean's, “Living a lie like that isn't really living at all. I don't want that for you.”

“Can I tell you something?” Dean swallowed hard. His voice was a whisper and it brought Cas' eyes back to his. Cas nodded, giving Dean's hand another squeeze and waited for Dean to speak again. Dean took a deep breath, “I, uh...I've wanted to...kiss you for a while now.”

Cas blushed at that, and all that did was make Dean want to kiss him more.

“Me too,” Cas said quietly.

“Do you want me to?” Dean checked, turning his hand over under Cas' so that they were clasped together. Dean bit his lip nervously, heart hammering in his chest. 

“Well...” Cas started, speaking slowly and pausing to consider his words before he continued, “Not if you're not ready. Don't rush yourself, okay? I've done that too.”

“What if you're ready and I'm not?” Dean asked, and something twinged in him, made him feel pathetic for saying something like that. It made him feel younger, like a naïve teenager interested in someone older and experienced who would vanish at the first hint of the other's hesitation. 

“Put it this way,” Cas started, still speaking slowly, looking straight into Dean's eyes, “There's no one else. No one but you.”

Cas was smiling softly. It was Dean's turn to blush now, and even though he was the one who'd offered the kiss, a relief washed over him at the fact that Cas knew he wasn't really ready for that yet, and that Cas was willing to wait until he was. Dean pulled his hand from Cas' now and pulled himself to his feet.

“I should get going,” he told Cas, who cleared his throat softly as he too stood up now, “Sammy's waiting at home. I told him I'd only be gone for an hour.”

“Oh,” Cas gave a short chuckle, leading Dean to the door now, “At least you have until tomorrow evening with.”

“Yeah,” Dean stepped out of the room and into the hall he'd been so frightened and panicked in mere hours ago. Already it felt so long ago. “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“You, uh...You wanna come with me? You can meet my kid brother.”

The smile that spread across Cas' face lit his entire expression, and Dean imagined that, as much as anything, Cas would be grateful for the opportunity to escape the mundane nature of the hotel room for a few hours, or for a night if he wanted to crash in the living room.

“I'd love to meet your brother,” Cas said, and Dean waited in the hall while Cas pulled on shoes and threw a jacket over his arm. He locked the door and together they made their way out of the hotel and back towards the familiarity of Dean and Charlie's flat. Dean wondered if Cas was nervous at the prospect of meeting Sam, but after a moment's deliberation he decided not to ask. Instead they spent the walk discussing a movie Cas had watched that morning- one that Dean had suggested for him weeks ago- and the novel version that he wanted to read out of curiosity. Dean hadn't read it and couldn't give a review, so instead they speculated how it might compare, and by the time they reached Dean's front door the conversation had turned to music they had each other grinning, their cheeks red from the cold.

“Dean,” Cas grabbed Dean's wrist as they lingered by the entrance to the flat. His grin was gone, something more sincere and serious mixed in his expression again, “I just wanted to tell you that you can talk to me about anything.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, though in all honesty he hadn't expected Cas to say that, “Thanks, Cas.”

“You're welcome,” Cas' smile returned slowly to his face, warm and genuine and fixed on Dean, “You told me earlier that I'm important to you. You should know...You're just as important to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment :) I love hearing what people think.


End file.
